


Sweet Nothings

by paperdaydreams



Series: Scars and All [4]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Arthur Morgan's Journal, Cold Weather, Consensual Sex, Cuddling & Snuggling, Domestic Boyfriends, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, Fluff, Living Together, Love Confessions, M/M, Prompt Fic, Requited Love, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-21
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:20:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26024863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperdaydreams/pseuds/paperdaydreams
Summary: With winter upon them, Arthur and John have found a temporary shelter to stay at while they wait for spring. Meanwhile, they try their best to keep warm...
Relationships: John Marston/Arthur Morgan
Series: Scars and All [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1877536
Comments: 6
Kudos: 71
Collections: Morston Week 2020





	Sweet Nothings

**Author's Note:**

> **NSFW**   
> Written for Morston Week 2020 (Day 5: Cuddling For Warmth & Day 7: The Journal). 
> 
> Thank you to those who curated and participated in the challenge! I enjoyed it immensely and am happy I had the opportunity to participate.

Woken by a chilly draft nipping his exposed toes, Arthur lazily kicks the wool blanket further down the bed, swearing coarsely when this serves to effectively pull it down his back instead. Buried under him in the small pocket of heat they share, John grumbles as the jostling wakes him for the sixth time.

“Could do with gettin' another blanket,” he comments flintily.

“Ain’t exactly a luxury I can just… jog down to the store for,” Arthur responds in a similar tone. “Besides, what'chu complainin' for? You ain't freezin' yer ass off keepin' me warm.”

At present, Arthur’s practically laid on top of the dark-haired ruffian, owed to last night’s awkward fumbles under a too-small blanket in pitch black.

Instead of arguing, John gives him an innocent little smile and replies, “Thanks, _sunshine_.”

Arthur blushes, despite himself. “Shuddup. Y'want coffee?”

“Sure, but not yet,” the younger man trails a thoughtful finger through the fierce beard sprouting all over Arthur’s jaw. “Keep me warm a lil' longer, hm?”

Arthur harrumphs but complies, settling more firmly against his partner, head resting on the hard line of collarbone. John’s arms wind around his waist, holding him there with a soft sigh. Early dawn seeps through the weathered shutters, the howling gale of an early winter snowstorm having taken over Ambarino.

Autumn had been swift to replace summer's humidity then abruptly cease to be, warmth plunging to a consistent temperature drop the closer October moved into November. Not all the leaves had been given the time to brown. Hopping from place to place, transforming old shacks into brief respites for a handful of weeks in their journey through the northern state, the frigid promise of another nasty winter forced the roaming men to relocate where - while keeping to themselves but able to reach town for basic necessities - they wouldn’t be recognized too easily.

They were fortunate to find a tiny abandoned cabin at the edge of Cumberland Forest, uninhabited except for the signs of the occasion passing squatter. The first snowfall served as a warning, preparations to shape the cabin into a livable condition and stock themselves with food and collect enough chopped lumber before the very next day saw them snowed in.

It wasn’t much but it would have to do until the weather cleared up, or once spring thawed the deep freeze. They weren’t in any concern of starving yet – perhaps just freezing. Arthur wonders if it’s too late to take up knitting, though he hasn’t a ball of wool handy.

John is tracing formless patterns on Arthur’s back under the blanket, humming off-tune an old campfire song neither remember the words to. The fire went out hours ago, not a spark of red amongst the black ashes, only the skin of their bodies sharing heat; it’s the unwelcome reminder Arthur will have to bundle up and chop another pile of wood to get them through the night.

For now, he has no qualms about leaving the cozy nest of Marston’s arms, burying his face into the side of his neck, inhaling the comforting smell of his skin. Arthur loves this.

“Got any plans for today?” John murmurs against his ear.

“Mhmm, I dunno. Spend it with you?”

“Fine by me, but lemme get the fire goin' before my toes fall off,” John starts to get up. Arthur pushes him flat again with a smirk, dips down to capture a hard kiss, then sits up himself. He purposefully drags his groin against the younger’s bulge, enjoying the sight of John’s flushed, wet lips.

“I’ll get it,” he volunteers, climbing off the bed. Predictably, though faster than he was honestly ready for, John utters a hungry growl and shoots off the bed, clambering to get Arthur about the waist.

Falling backwards with an “oof!” onto the old mattress, legs are scrambling on either side of his waist and a chest is pinning him in place, straddling him flat. Fists ball up in his unbuttoned union suit, tugging his shoulders up off the bed as John steals another lush, open-mouthed kiss.

“Don’t think so,” John mumbles against his lips, grinding down against Arthur’s hardening cock, still tucked away behind a layer of cotton. “Can’t just go an' kiss a man like that, then expect nothin'.”

“I don’t start nothin’ without weighing the consequences first, cowboy,” he retorts.

The pace of the rolling grind he’s setting creates the most wonderful friction, thin cloth the only barrier between their bodies. The kind of consistent rubbing that could last a while for both of them, if they were interested in dragging it out. Arthur takes both of Marston’s wrists, holding them up above their heads, the other teasing his lower lip. A tip of tongue peeks out, tasting, and Arthur gently presses the first two knuckles in. John, eyes hooded and darkened with want, bites down lightly; the sensation chases straight down to the flood of controlled heat in Arthur’s loins.

They aren’t strangers to messing around, tasting and touching curiosity or to sate a mutual itch. Penetrative sex, on the other hand… well, no. He wanted to hold off, after the knife wound disabled John for a solid month, the healing process stretching well over another. The littlest movement or press seemed to set him off, making riding a horse the following day difficult.

In October, once he stopped limping occasionally and didn’t seem to experience further symptoms, Arthur began entertaining the notion of broaching the uncharted – and thus, he secretly picked up a tin of petroleum jelly when they lucked out on finding money stashed away in the weirdest of places or forgotten in the wreckage of crashed carriages. A sack of jewelry scored them a whole fifty dollars that was divided between gun oil and ammunition, food which wouldn’t expire too quickly, supplies for Admiral, and further necessities they had become accustomed to living without but felt wise it would be to have again… and the jelly.

Arthur was careful to not let John see it, and has managed to keep it hidden for several weeks, though every instance he intended to make use of it burdened by some obstacle or another – no shelter, no privacy, bad weather, and so on. No, he wasn’t interested in taking the poor man where they could be interrupted or, worse, fall victim to danger; a roof over their heads and the comfort of a bed were firmly written at the top of Arthur’s intentions, refusing to accept otherwise. It mattered to him, even if John was completely content with a pile of leaves at the roadside.

For their first time, Arthur wouldn’t settle for less than the rare comforts outlaws so infrequently were provided. John would find it ridiculous, to put forth so much care and attention into such trivialities, but Arthur feels differently.

1899 has not been their year, and he hopes the new one – a new decade, a new _century_ – will finally be their time to find a life worth living. Provided they make it through the winter, that is.

As though to remind them, they’re both startled by the abrupt bang of a shutter snapping open, the howling wind rushing in through the opening. John’s off his lap faster than Arthur can voice a scathing curse, rushing to close the shutter again and trap what little warmth they have in the cabin.

Arthur sighs and slips off the bed to reignite the fireplace. The hardwood is cold underfoot, and he’s uncomfortably hard, adjusting himself awkwardly as he crouches to add a split chunk of birch amongst a handful of kindling, some sticks, and bits the flames should eat up quickly. He hasn’t any paper, save the pages of his journal, but can’t find the heart to tear one out.

The wrapper off a tin of beans does just as well, lighting the edges carefully with a match before placing it where the sticks will flame. John is grousing around the kitchen, the blanket stolen from the bed and wrapped around his shoulders, the distinct _slich_ of his hunting knife suggesting the preparation of breakfast.

The fire springs good and hot, licking the paper and transforming it blackened, and Arthur seats himself cross-legged on the floor, dragging his buckskin coat over to drape around his shoulders. He unearths his journal from where it was kicked away from the bed last night in the scurry for the prime spot, and opens the book to the last page he was working on, a record of the week’s doings.

Setting to filling in what he missed from yesterday, his head is bent over the paper on his knee, pencil stub scratching; John deposits the coffee pot by the crackling hearth to heat, and sits next to Arthur with a loaded plate in hand. There isn’t much, beyond soft apple slices and some seed loaf, a hunk of cheese to split between them, but it’s a meal to start the day.

Arthur nibbles on the seed loaf absentmindedly, writing away quietly, John leaning into his side comfortably as he reads over his shoulder, a few pieces of apple mechanically going from plate to mouth. Arthur doesn’t mind his attentive audience. They empty the plate and John pours coffee into the single cup they have, passing it back and forth.

“Hmm,” John says thoughtfully at one point, as Arthur finishes writing all he can think to put down.

“Uh oh, he’s usin' his brain,” the older outlaw teases, tucking the pencil between the pages and setting it aside. “Or… what's left of it.”

He gets his shoulder knocked for that old jibe, then a sharp chin rests there.

“What’cha thinkin', Johnny?”

“I dunno. Guess I was,” he sighs, breath smelling of apples. “Just wonderin’ how things would be, had things gone differently.”

“If we stayed with Dutch, you mean?”

“Yeah. I wonder where they ended up,” John frowns, then looks worried. “Is it wrong, thinkin' of them?”

“No,” Arthur shakes his head. “I miss ‘em all the time. I expect I will, for a long time, but…” he leans over to peck the scarred bridge of the younger outlaw’s nose. “I got you, an’ I’m happy for it.”

John slips an arm around his back, and they stay there a little longer in the fire's glow, until the wind outside lets up and Arthur reluctantly decides he'd better collect firewood now before the weather has a chance to turn.

After piling on an unnecessary amount of layers, some of which belong to Marston, he buckles on his gun belt as a precaution and searches for the axe fallen behind a broken cupboard by the door. John’s arm is longer and is able to reach it better, and he thanks him with a light kiss.

He steals another before he goes, and has another taken before he’s all the way out the door, serving a reminder once he’s done outside, they’ll have the entire day to themselves.

X

Gathering the plate and cup to drop off in the makeshift kitchen, John wanders around the cabin while Arthur’s gone, the edge of the blanket trailing on the floor behind him as he paces back and forth.

Winter’s swift approach only offers hardship, and many a man has died to starvation or frostbite. He drifts to a window and glares at the deep snow drifts, pristine white and fluffy. He already misses the lush damp of spring, and mentally kicks himself for complaining so often about summertime’s sunny heat.

Snow and bone-deep cold only resurfaces memories of the mountain, the hungry wolves dragging him off the horse, the tears clawed and bit into his face and leg. A hand drifts to his cheek, tracing the healed lines where beard will never sprout again.

Instead of allowing himself to fret over things he can’t help, he finds Arthur’s satchel hung off the arm of a chair in search of a book; his nail strikes something metal and he withdraws a tin, about the same diameter as his palm.

He reads the label, and his eyebrows peak on his forehead in dawning realization. _Oh._

John puts it back hastily, never minding the book, and sits in front of the fire again. He stares at the waving orange flames intensely, all the while _not_ thinking about thinking of the tin…

Why hadn’t Arthur mentioned he bought it?

Or was John not supposed to know?

He snorts. Clearly, he wasn’t meant to know if Arthur said nothing of it.

Or perhaps he’s just nervous, considering it's an avenue they haven’t explored before. There’s no judgement in his mind when he weighs this thought, as he shares the same concern.

_Ain’t no rush, Marston,_ he reminds himself firmly. Besides, a rush would result in disaster.

Shifting on the floor for better placement, his knee bumps into the journal left by the fire. He picks it up, meaning to place it somewhere safer when the pencil falls out. Grasping the stub before it can roll too far, he flips it open to return it.

Arthur’s skillful penmanship sweeps in heavy graphite across the yellowed paper, letters curling with a grace similar to the hand Dutch and Hosea taught him after finding Morgan as a boy of nine on the streets.

A tidy record of the gang’s travels following Blackwater and through until Leviticus Cornwall’s attack in Valentine, all of Arthur’s personal thoughts layered neatly into the written account; John avoids reading too much, wanting to spare the man his privacy, fondly studying the sketches animals, plants, and sweeping landscapes all labelled neatly. He thinks Arthur would make a fine naturalist, if not an artist or devoting his life to working with horses.

There are mentions of their encounters with the Murfree Brood and his colourful retelling of the cave they were stuck in together, ending with a simple:

_Marston caught me off guard and kissed me. Didn’t think he saw me that way. Might’ve kissed him back._

John smiles, sensing shyness in the carefully written words, but it falls from his face upon reading his viewpoint of the following day, a smudged fingerprint on the paper's corner:

_John was stabbed._

_I couldn’t do nothing. Just stood there like a fool and watched. Shot the son of a bitch who did it, but I weren’t quick enough._

_The doctor is here. They won’t let me near him. I don’t know if he’s alright. I refuse anything else, or I may just strangle the doctor._

_John, please pull through. I won’t ever forgive myself if_

The entry ends abruptly. A hollow pit opens in place of his gut as he reads it again. _It weren’t your fault, Arthur…_

Nearly every day they spent at the Balfour’s is transcribed in brief detail, notes about his own recovery, a sketch of the homestead, one of Charlotte and Cal with the description, _“Fine people they was"_ under their portraits. The half-Andalusian takes up an entire page, drawn with accurate detail in a landscape picture, Admiral’s name beneath the hooves. Mentions of John’s growing fussiness, his refusal to eat, and Arthur’s building impatience; the dark-haired outlaw understands his anger, his frustration, all coming from a good place.

More guilt and self-blaming. He almost tosses the journal aside, a stinging behind his eyes, and turns the page to find himself looking into a mirror.

It catches him off guard immediately.

Scars and all, a faintly irritated set to his brow, lips parting as though to scold, it’s a true-to-life replica of his face, every strand of hair scraggly and unkempt across his forehead and brushing the less-detailed outline of a neck and collar. Dark eyes sparkle with life, glaring off the page, uncanny. The caption is simply: _“John M.”_

There is an entry alongside.

_We been roaming with no where to go. I can't shake the horrible feeling there ain’t no place we belong. Maybe this home I am searching for ain’t to be found. Wherever John goes, I follow. He is my home._

_I sure don’t know how to tell him or where to begin. Part of me wishes he would go ahead and say it first, but I cannot be sure he feels as I do._

_Oh, Morgan. You’re a damn fool. Love ain’t never redeemed you before._

Throat tight, John swallows thickly, the breath knocked from his lungs. Arthur _loves_ him?

John’s known his feelings for the older outlaw for a long time, ever since the day the floor beneath his feet and the rope pulled taunt on his throat, snapping clear in the same instant as a bullet sliced the fibers; the day a boy not five years his senior hauled him off the muddy ground with a hand tight in his collar, pulling him through a bloodthirsty crowd and onto the back of a silver dappled pinto and raced like the wind away from fearsome shouts and cracking gunfire; the moment sharp blue eyes edged in kindness promised he wasn’t going to die that day, a boy of only twelve.

Truth is, John's loved Arthur for a long time – even when that man of seventeen found love in a proper lady from a family who didn’t care much for _their sort_ , or a couple years on when he’d come and go for days at a time to some other woman John didn’t know the name of or why Arthur stopped seeing her. He was changed after that, never stepping foot in brothels and refusing the services of women, colder than John knew him to be. It also signaled the end of their bond, when Abigail fell pregnant and claimed John as the father, his refusal sparking a fearsome anger in Arthur he didn’t understand at _all_.

When Jack was born, to his absolute and utter terror, everyone was on his back about raising the boy and caring for his woman. A fuse lit to a box of dynamite, John’s patience grew thin and his mood became something ugly, until after a year he couldn’t bear it – couldn’t bear _Arthur_ telling him to be with this whore and a boy who wasn’t his blood.

Unable to admit he didn’t care for women, even to the people who raised him _let alone Arthur_ , he left in a panicked rush one rainy night when he was sure no one would find him or find his trail. He ran as far as a horse would take him, as far as his legs would carry him, and disappeared, aimless and heartbroken and sick with guilt for weeks upon weeks, enduring a year in lonely self isolation.

And he couldn’t bear any of it, not having familiar shadows crossing his path, not having…

Going back was the hardest choice he'd ever made. Staying became the oath he promised himself, to remember how difficult it was the last time, and to never abandon them again.

But he did.

And couldn’t be _happier_ for it.

Is it wrong? he thinks, as he cradles the pencil stub between shaking fingers. Is he a sinner? he wonders, as he presses black lines into yellowed paper. Are they irredeemable? he fears, as he forms the letters into words his mouth trembles too much to say.

Or is this the better alternative?

Heavy boots on the doorstop announce the older outlaw’s return, and John rises to meet him, the journal clutched hard in his shaking hands.

The door protests some before finally giving way and he stumbles inside, the fire's warmth meeting his chilled nose and cheeks, and he closes the door with haste to preserve it as best as he can.

Marston is stood in the middle of the room, his face bloodless and mouth pinched tight – frightened. Immediately, Arthur is alarmed, nearly dropping the bundle.

“John, what’s-"

Then, John holds up the journal in his hands, held sideways and flipped open to the final page. Words are written there, four of them, in a slightly tipsy line.

The wood crashes to the floor, sending splinters scattering across the floor, melting snow forming puddles on the hardwood. He doesn’t notice.

Though not as fine with a pencil, the letters are legible, the simple words bearing the weight of mountains – a confession:

_ I love you too _

The breath is knocked from Arthur’s lungs.

Round eyes and body rigid, John is waiting for a response. Arthur’s mind fails to form a single one; there are no words he could possibly speak to convey his feelings, give voice to his churning mind.

They face each other, silent but raw with tension one could cut with a bullet.

“Arthur?” John finally croaks, shattering the quiet. Arthur breathes in then, wood smoke and winter in his throat. “I didn’t-"

In a few short strides, Arthur clears the space between them and pulls John into his arms, the paper buckling between their chests. There’s a slight gasp of surprise, then arms are tight around his back, clinging to the other. Arthur buries his face in the heat of John’s neck, holding him as tightly as he dares, an indescribable burning swelling overtaking the frantic drumming of his heart.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be readin' your-"

“I kinda hoped you would,” Arthur interrupts, drawing back to see John’s face better, a fond smile at the corners of his mouth. “Ain’t got nothin' to hide, well… not really.”

“You sure you ain’t mad?”

“Oh, I never said I weren’t _mad_ ,” he emphasizes with a widening of his eyes, chuckling a bit. “Nah, just an old man’s laments in there.”

“You ain’t old,” John protests.

“Besides,” he adds, speaking low, gloved fingers taking Marston’s chin and leaning in close, enjoying the effect of his brown eyes flooded by engorged pupils. “The only madness I know is how I feel ‘round you.”

It’s as though a bullet's been fired.

Their mouths clash in the same heartbeat, barely avoiding smashing teeth, John’s hands unbuttoning and dragging off his coat, tearing frantically at the layers underneath. Arthur has his gun belt off, his pants unlaced, kicks his boots off. His hands slide up John’s back, one hand gripping his hair, tugging his head back and offering an open-mouthed kiss. The answering groan reignites the fire from earlier on the drop of a dime, and he guides the younger outlaw back towards the bed.

He misjudges the distance, Marston tripping backwards, both landing with a shared _oof_. Arthur pins him in place with his hips, biting kisses down his jaw, finding the delicate curve of his ear to nibble on. John’s hands roam, grasping the hem of his shirt, never minding taking it off when he can simply get his hands underneath, calloused palms caressing over waist and rib and dense muscle.

“I want…” John trails off on a breathy moan as Arthur’s hand finds an opening, palming his length gently. “I- _ah_ … want you.”

“Mhm, you sure ‘bout that?” he mumbles, opening his hand on a downwards stroke. Marston’s glare is something nasty, and Arthur can’t not laugh. “Alright, hold on.”

“Been doin' that for months _,_ Morgan,” the younger outlaw practically _snarls_ as Arthur relinquishes him entirely, climbing off the bed to get his satchel. Flipping it open, he locates the tin where he left it. John’s sat up to unbutton his union suit, untangling himself from the arms and legs, looking a bit like a flailing cat.

“Here,” Arthur tosses the tin onto the mattress, bending to retrieve the blanket from the floor.

“You ain’t surprised to see it,” he notices, when John casually retrieves the tin and unscrews the lid. There’s a guilty look in response. _Caught._

“I were gettin' a book-" he starts to say, flushing red in embarrassment. “I weren’t sure if you maybe changed your mind or…”

Arthur feels a flicker of concern. “An' why would I be changin’ my mind, hm?”

The younger outlaw shrugs, suddenly seeming far more vulnerable as he curls inward on his naked self. His perpetually-unkempt hair hides his face. “I dunno…” he whispers, peering up worriedly. “Maybe I weren’t… everythin' you wanted.”

_I ain’t nothin' but scars._

Arthur drops the blanket on the bed, sitting in front of John, and reaches out to brush the hair from his face. Before the younger man can lean away, he ducks close, kissing the scars on his cheek.

“I want you, John Marston. No one else,” he reaffirms firmly. “As you are, scars an' all.”

John’s eyes are soft with affection and longing, burrowing against Arthur, their lips touching lightly. The sandy-haired outlaw kisses the darker's shoulder, leans back to tug his shirt off up over his head, shivering when lips and tongue find his chest before the fabric even passes over his face. Fingertips squeeze a nipple, making him jump.

“Sensitive?” John asks, replacing fingers with a flick of wet tongue, experimenting. Arthur snorts a laugh, pushing the younger man away, hard enough to have him flop on his back.

“Ticklish,” he corrects, bending over John and kissing the pink scar of the healed knife wound. “Alright, how’re we doin' this?”

“Hmm,” John shrugs, propping himself up on his elbows, looking down at Arthur sprawled between his bare thighs with a thoughtful frown. “I’m smaller so…”

“Longer,” Arthur points out, trailing a finger down the particular organ in discussion, and John bites his lip. “You were sayin'?”

“I met a feller, some years back. We was jokin' around after a few drinks in an’ somehow ended up on the subject of sodomizin’. Said to me… uh, what was it? Oh,” he chuckles. “Told me it ain’t nothin' like takin' a woman and… uh… fellers have to be worked a bit more.”

“Johnny, I ain’t I been livin' under a rock for thirty-one years,” Arthur rolls his eyes; he knows _that_ much in the very least.

“Well then,” John pushes himself upright and gives the waist of Arthur’s pants a tug. “Take these off an’ get on your stomach.”

_Pushy lil’ bastard, ain’t he?_

Tugging off his pants, they pile in a heap on the floorboards, and he turns onto his front, blushing as John shuffles between his open thighs. One hand rests on his rump, squeezing lightly. 

“Do you trust me?” John asks, explicitly serious, all playful tones disregarded.

“Course I do.”

“If it hurts…” Two hands now, slow circles on his backside, thumbs tracing the small dimples just above. “If you wanna stop, you _tell_ me. Don’t be scared to, alright?”  
  
  
“Okay,” Arthur whispers, tucking his face into a bent elbow. He’s suddenly tense, a taunt rope fraying dangerously quick. But he trusts John, and believes in his promise.  
  
  
He expects pressure, or pain, or both. He’s heard all the nasty and horrible stories of sodomy, the lewd jokes shared around saloons or campfires. He’s a stranger to such, receiving and giving both. It’s new territory, yet to be breached – one cannot rely on the word of another, as everyone is different.

The drag of a thumb’s pad across puckered skin tugs a surprised gasp from him. Rolling in small circles, John is taking his time, focused on helping Arthur become accustomed to his touch before anything else.

“You okay?”  
  
  
“Y-yeah.”

“It don’t hurt?”

“Nah… just,” Arthur shakes his head, seeking words. “Feels odd.”

“Want me to stop?”  
  
  
“No.. no, I’m- it’s alright.”

John squeezes the fairer outlaw’s hip. “Define ‘odd'.”  
  
  
“I ain’t… it feels-" Arthur struggles, and John withdraws his hand, resting it on the rounded curve for a moment. “Never felt somethin' like that before, is all.”

“Y'never touched yourself there?”

“Not… no, not really.” A scarlet glow flushes down his neck, and he’s suddenly embarrassed.

  
But John doesn’t laugh, and he’s immensely grateful for it. A palm rubs his back with a soothing murmur.

“You can ask me to stop,” he assures, his promise without attached strings. “Don’t matter why.”

Arthur nods, a thumb trailing along the cleft of his buttocks, gentle as can be.

The flames in the hearth flicker lazily, cracking and popping occasionally, smoke wafting up the chimney. Outside the cabin, heavier snowflakes obscure the trees in a dense layer of white.

Arthur buries his face in the crook of an arm, biting hard into his bicep, grinding his swollen cock into the mattress. Fingers curl inside of him, brushing against a spot that’s driving his senses wild. He knows he could handle more; damn it, he _needs_ more, a sharp thrust down barely scratching the surface of his wanting. He’s only short of begging.

John responds something he doesn’t catch, but there’s amusement in his voice.

Bereft of withdrawn fingers, to which Arthur utters a helplessly distressed whine, he silences effectively as thighs line up neatly behind his and a rounded tip presses against his entrance.

Warily, John sheaths himself within him in controlled increments, and all Arthur can do is _moan_ and arch his hips to meet him, pushing past the stinging stretch. John startles, hands clasping his sides as he stays balanced, thrown off by the sharp backwards thrust. There’s little accustoming to concern himself with, taking all of the hard length with ease.

“A lil' warnin' next time…” the younger outlaw grits. Arthur chuckles.

“Sorry.”

A rolling thrust sets an easy gait, Arthur shifting onto his knees to get a hand beneath himself. Before he can grasp fully, a hand bats him away quickly, John sinking down on his back to take his cock for himself in his non-dominant hand, pecking kisses across the line of his shoulders.

“Marston,” he warns, then gasps wantonly as the drag of thumb over the slippery head erases whatever he was planning on saying.

“Yeah?” he replies, stroking slowly.

Arthur unsticks his tongue from the roof of his mouth. “Nothin'.”

“You sure?” John tugs a little harder, matching it with a steady thrust. Arthur’s mouth opens, soundless.

“I didn’t…” another purposeful thrust, “ _hear_ you,” a squeeze of palm, “…sunshine.”

“Shut up an’ fuck me, cowboy,” Arthur growls. He _feels_ the laugh shudder through John’s chest and through their bodies.

“Anythin' you say, sweetheart.”

And he doesn’t hold back, to the older outlaw’s surprise, nearly shoved off the end of the bed at the unbridled force of hard propulsion. The slick surface of Marston’s hand keeps a synchronized pace, the cabin echoing with shaky breaths gradually climbing to deep moans.

Hands blindly grasping at the blanket, Arthur sinks his teeth into it to stifle the uncontrollable noises he’s making. John’s ragged breaths are enough to signal he's close, curling inward as his pace becomes jagged; the hand working him becomes lax, and Arthur fumbles for the tin by his ear, scooping up enough to slick his own palm.

The roiling pit low in his gut boils something fearsome, the edges of his sight a shimmering blur. He tries to speak, muffled by the blanket; spitting it out hastily, he manages a weak, “ _J-John_.”

“Mhmm, me… me too,” comes a bitten reply, the younger outlaw draped across his back, uneven surges forward, wet gasps against his skin. “Oh god, _Arthur_ …”

It’s sudden, a flood of heat, a hoarse cry drowned out by Arthur’s groan of raw pleasure, pulsing into his hand and all over the mattress.

His brain is blank, absolutely thoughtless, trembling as he slumps to one side, John crashing behind him with his arms tangled around Arthur’s waist, still half-buried within his partner.

Arthur honestly doesn’t mind, finding John’s hand and giving it a squeeze, fingers threading together.

He is beyond, completely and wonderfully, spent.

It’s going to be a sore morning, he thinks tiredly. Although, he supposes, they’ll be used to it with plenty of practice.

He giggles. Loudly.

“What you laughin' for?” John mumbles at his shoulder, propping himself up and peering down at a grinning Arthur.

“Mhm, just thinkin’ ‘bout next time.”

_“Already?”_

Arthur rolls onto his back and pulls John down, kissing him soundly, tucking his hair behind an ear, exposing the scar lines to stroke.

“Yeah,” he whispers when they part. “An’ all the times after.”

John grins, eyes crinkling happily.

“Well, we ain’t got any plans, so…” the younger outlaw kisses him again, deeply, in the way that sparks a flame in his loins. “As long as you’re there.”

“I’ll follow you anywhere, darlin',” Arthur promises, and gathers John in his arms. “I ain’t goin' nowhere without you.”


End file.
